


And God Said, Be Fruitful

by AstroGirl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Discussions of Homophobia, Multi, Other, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, gender fluidity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 15:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19748971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstroGirl/pseuds/AstroGirl
Summary: Humans might call it a miracle, this ought-to-be-impossible thing that's happened.





	And God Said, Be Fruitful

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Gen Prompt Bingo, for the prompt "surprise/shock." Which seems appropriate enough, because I can't believe I actually wrote it, but it kept banging around on the inside of my head demanding to get out, and this seemed to be the only way to get it to shut up.

The first change that starts it all should come as less of a surprise.

Human civilizations move in circles and in spirals. Human social mores change on scales that feel, to immortal beings, little longer than the ebb and flow of the seasons.

Time continues to pass since the day the world paused, and reflected, and decided to go on, and Aziraphale and Crowley spend it living lives that are no one's but theirs, savoring the unfamiliar relief of a burden lifted and learning to love each other in ways both old and new.

But as the years pile into decades, they notice an increasing hostility from the world they once worked to save. Humans have always compulsively invented rules for who can touch whom, and where and why and when, and they appear to be sliding again into a time when two male-shaped beings who cherish the freedom to hold each other's hands are met with hard stares and unkind words and closed doors, metaphorical and literal.

It will not do. The free will of humans is sacrosanct, even for them, even now. But manipulating the inclinations of that will is a venerable practice of both Heaven and Hell. Aziraphale knows the right soft, gentle, uncompromising words to put into the right ears. Crowley sees the patterns and the chaos, knows the right levers to pull and buttons to push, knows the technology that serves, today, in place of levers and buttons. They can't miracle human beings better, miracle human societies different. But they can influence. For their own selfish ends, Crowley laughs. For the good of the world, Aziraphale responds, without contradicting.

But by human standards, at least, such shifts are slow, and Crowley grows impatient. Annoyed. You can't curse _everyone_ who gives you a disgusted look with a plague of boils, or an unscratchable itch, or a lifetime of hitting every red light. Well, you _can_ , of course, but eventually the fun wears off.

So it is that one day Aziraphale comes home, a stack of newly purchased ancient writing in his arms, and is greeted by a new form of Crowley. The same face, nearly. The same old, familiar, much-appreciated corporeal shape. Nearly. But a Crowley with a small swell of breasts and a small flare of hips, and a small feminine delicacy about her eyes and mouth, a coming-forward of something only hinted at there before.

It solves the problem, doesn't it? For as long as they need it to. "Wouldn't have asked you to do it, Angel," she says. "You haven't even changed your _hair_ in six thousand years." She's done it before, she says. She doesn't mind. Enjoys it, even. "Anyway, a change once in a while is good, don't you think? Shake things up a bit?"

It does shake things up, but only a bit. They move again, to forestall questions, but perhaps it was time to do that, anyway. They continue to push the buttons and whisper the words and wait for the pendulum to swing back, and in the meantime, they live. A man and a woman in a cottage full of houseplants, and books, and wine, and a very earthly sort of love.

Until it changes. Until improbably, ridiculously, all of it changes.

Crowley notices it at first only as a tickling in the back of her mind, like something trying to get her attention only to duck shyly out of sight when she tries to give it what it wants.

It's nothing, she thinks. Paranoia. Been too quiet lately. Been too easy. Been too _good._

So she says nothing, and concludes nothing, until one day she wakes up and, still half-asleep and open to the impossible, finally hears what it is this body of hers is trying to tell her. "Unholy shit!" she yelps, sitting bolt upright in the bed that is nominally hers, but really theirs. "That's... That's not... _Aziraphale!_ "

And Aziraphale comes, and sees, and it is true.

Humans might call it a miracle, this ought-to-be-impossible thing that's happened. But if it's a miracle, it isn't one of their devising.

As the months pass, Crowley grows to resemble a snake that's swallowed a small animal, and then a larger one. Constantly, the two of them press their hands to her belly, trying to understand what it is they feel. This confusion. This fear. This strange, befuddled joy.

They name the child Alexandria. "For the library," Aziraphale says, and Crowley laughs. "Of course you would, angel. Of course you would." Aziraphale still misses the library, still mourns its decline and destruction, with which he was forbidden to interfere. 

But it it's not only the library. They had some good times in Alexandria once, together. Aziraphale still remembers the taste of wine and figs, the sound of laughter that should not have been companionable, but was. Crowley remembers his first casual touch of Aziraphale's hand, how the angel failed to pull away, or even look surprised.

And, as both of them know but neither of them says out loud, "Alexandria" has a meaning, too. It means "defender of mankind."

Alexandria is many things at once. Born of mostly-human bodies, she grows like a human, lives and cries and breathes like a human, learns to walk and talk and think like a human. But she has wings, for those who know how to see them, feathers mottled in white and black and all the shades of gray between. She has miracles that come to her as naturally as her own miraculous life has. She has no fear of hellfire or holy water. She is human and angel and demon, and something else entirely. A new thing under the sun.

She grows up loving the world, loving books and cars and music and food and ducks and the smiles of strangers. Loving her parents, who find their unexpected new job confusing and difficult, having never had parents, having never been children. But they love her, too. More than they have loved anything since they last heard the voice of God.

Which also means they fear, more than they have feared anything since the end of the world. Since, perhaps, the beginning of the world. Hell will be angry. Heaven will be disgusted. Surely any moment the lightning will crash and the ground will open, and they will be surrounded by angels and demons shouting "Abomination! Abomination!"

But it doesn't happen. Not yet, not as the years pass, and pass. Perhaps they are under some divine protection. Perhaps this, too, is part of the ineffable plan. But the silence from Above and Below does not reassure. The longer it stretches on, the more nervous they become. 

Heaven and Hell are biding their time. They may bide it for a long, long while yet. They can be patient, looking up or down at a world that isn't going anywhere, now. They are planning. Aziraphale can feel it, where his faith used to be. Crowley can feel it everywhere.

Heaven has ten million angels. Hell has ten million demons. Earth and its people have only them, and so far they are three. 

But the miracle having come unbidden once, they can make it happen again. They have the love, and the will, and the time. 

Soon they will be more. And more again. 

When the final battle comes, perhaps they will be enough.


End file.
